Sunday Night Football
by GraceBrannan
Summary: The events in the Winchester household every Sunday night in the eighteen weeks of football season. (This is my first fanfiction ever, so I hope it's okay.)
1. Week 1

Castiel did not understand Dean's fascination with the game of football.

It was a Sunday night, which meant that he would be trapped in front of the television screen for at least three hours while Dean cursed at the players who almost certainly couldn't hear him. Dean was leaning back in the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table littered with car magazines and traditional football-watching snacks. He held his bottle of beer in his right hand, his left absentmindedly tousling Castiel's hair. Cas's head was on Dean's lap, as it allowed him to stare at the ceiling in boredom without seeming impolite. He stretched his legs out across the couch, jiggling his feet with impatience. He sighed as Dean yelled at the screen again, cursing the player in blue for inappropriately grabbing the player in green.

"Dean," Cas could not hold in his exasperation any longer. "I fail to see what is so entertaining about watching teams of men run around fields angrily for hours at a time." Dean glanced down.

"You have no appreciation for the finer things in life, Cas." He smiled and took another swig of beer. "It's a nice change, watching other people get beaten up and tackled for their job." Dean extended his fingers through Cas's hair, lightly massaging his scalp. The former angel smiled, despite himself.

"Alright, but is it truly necessary for us to spend every Sunday watching the same game?" Cas tilted his head back a little, receptive to Dean's touch.

"It's not the same game, Cas. Each time it's different."

"I disagree. There are two teams, they chase each other around for an intolerable amount of time, they kick the ball into the u-shaped metal posts until the eventual victory of one group over another." Dean laughed.

"Tell me how you really feel, Cas. I don't think you made your point." Cas looked up at him, confused.

"I just meant that I think it is a rather monotonous pastime." He said. Dean sighed. He leaned down and gently kissed Cas's forehead.

"It's my own fault for thinking that you finally had a grasp on sarcasm." Dean set his beer bottle down and moved the head from his lap. He adjusted himself to be facing Cas, who had sat up as well.

"It's like…it's like hunting." Dean took a deep breath. Castiel sat up a bit straighter, focusing all of his attention on the man in front of him. They hadn't talked about their former life in a while, except to make the occasional offhand joke or reference. The former angel watched as Dean's calm, relaxed face reassumed the hardened look of a man who had been to war, who had seen the world collapse too many times to count. Cas softly placed his hand on Dean's cheek.

"Dean…" He began a silent plea. We don't have to talk about this. We don't have to think about this. It's over. We're here now. Look, football. Please be happy, Dean. Please.

Dean gently lowered Cas's hand from his face and took another breath. He seemed calmer, but he never released the angel's hand.

"It's like hunting. Each time you hunt a ghost, it's the same drill. Salt and burn." The grasp tightened briefly, then relaxed again. "But each ghost's methods are his own. The ending is always the same, but the hunt is always different." Dean closed his eyes briefly. Cas noticed how Dean never used the past tense when referring to hunting. The danger was always in the present. He was prepared to fight again, even if it broke him beyond repair.

I'm sorry, Cas wanted to say. I'm sorry I didn't understand football. I'm sorry I made you return to that state of mind. I'm sorry I brought the memories that haunt your nightmares into this real world, our home.

Instead, Castiel gently kissed Dean. He rested his forehead against that of the former hunter's. He held Dean's face in his hands and did not comment when he felt the tears of the other man slide onto his fingers.

"Thank you, Dean." He whispered. "I understand now."

Dean nodded, allowing himself to be encased in Castiel's arms. When Cas had first become human, it was often he who gained solace in Dean's tight embrace. He was the one who constantly needed to be held, to be reassured that he was not and would never be alone.

Now, he could only return the favor for the man he loved.

Castiel kissed the top of Dean's head and nestled into the couch. They watched football late into the night.


	2. Week 2

"I burnt the nachos."

"You what?"

"The nachos. I burned them."

Castiel had volunteered to be in charge of making snacks that Sunday. He far preferred menial cooking duties to spending another night watching football, and he wanted to make sure Dean was happy.

Dean had been subdued since their talk during last week's viewing session. The house had been absent of his loud laughter in the past few days, an air of mild anxiety replacing the usual atmosphere of calm contentment. Cas had resolved that tonight would make him happy again. Food always made Dean happy.

But as he stood there in the living room with the charred remains of nachos in his hand and Dean looking up at him expectantly from the couch, Cas felt nothing but shame. He had failed.

"How did you burn the nachos?" Dean's asked, slightly amused. This somehow made the wretched ordeal even worse. Silly Cas, still not able to perform the easiest of human tasks. He was little more than a helpless child.

"I don't know! I put the cheese on the chips, just like you told me too, then I put them in the oven—"

"You put them in the _oven_?" Dean asked, his smirk growing wider. Castiel looked down at the blackened nacho carcass and shifted his weight. He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks.

"Yes, at around 400 degrees." He said, quietly. Dean was now shaking with restrained laughter. "I'm sorry. I've done it all wrong." Cas said, frustrated at his lack of worth, ashamed at his ineptitude. Dean must have realized the former angel's pain, for he stood up from the couch and quickly walked over to Castiel.

"It's just nachos, Cas." He said, gently taking the plate of burnt nachos from Cas's hand.

"No, it's not." Castiel turned away, frustrated. "It's everything. I don't know how to use a washing machine or drive a car. I don't know how to live on my own. You go to work every day and I just sit here for hours, waiting for you to come home. I can't _do _anything, Dean." He laughed bitterly. "When I was an angel, I had power. Now, I'm human, and I'm useless."

Dean looked at him, clearly at a loss of what to say. After a few seconds, he put his hand to Cas's cheek and gently turned it so they were face to face. Dean stood like that for a small eternity, watching Castiel anxiously.

"Cas," He whispered, finally, "Let's make nachos."

"But the game—"

"Forget the game." Castiel exhaled heavily in exasperation. This made everything so much worse. Dean was going to give up his favorite ritual for no real reason. For him.

"No, Dean. You love football. I'm not going to make you stop watching." Cas's tone was almost angry. He was not worth this. But Dean just shrugged and gestured to the television.

"It's halftime. You're not interrupting anything. Now move." He practically shoved Cas into the kitchen, dumping the failed nachos in the trash as they entered. "Get me a plate." The former angel obeyed silently, stifling his self-loathing to pull a dish out of the cupboard.

"Alright," Dean said as soon as the chips and cheese were assembled properly. "This is going to go in the microwave for a minute and a half." He turned to Castiel. "Your biggest mistake wasn't burning the nachos. Your biggest mistake was not putting any toppings on." He opened the door to the fridge and began pulling out items at random.

"Salsa, olives, guac…am I missing anything?" Cas realized with a jolt that Dean was talking to him, asking him what he should do next.

"Sour cream?" Castiel asked hesitantly, so afraid of being wrong. Dean broke out into a wide grin, the one that always made Cas feel as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. He couldn't help but give a weak smile in return.

"Great idea." Dean pulled the sour cream out of the refrigerator. The former angel sagged with relief. The microwave chimed to indicate that the cheese had melted over the chips. Dean pulled the plate out and began pouring liberal amount of salsa on the nachos. "Could you slice up some olives for us to put on top?" He asked. Cas swallowed nervously.

"Of course." He said. Slowly, laboriously, and fearful of accidentally severing digits, Castiel chopped the olives. Dean stopped pouring guacamole and looked over to Cas. He smiled softly. "That's probably enough." He said, scooping the olives in his hand and sprinkling them on top of the mountain of nachos.

They walked over to the couch and sat down, Dean keeping the nachos on his lap. He put his arm around Cas's shoulder as they began to watch the game again.

"You're not useless, Cas." Dean said suddenly, tilting his head to face the former angel. Castiel looked down, unwilling to hear what he believed to be untrue. "Hey. Look at me." Dean lifted Cas's chin gently. "You need to know that you're not worthless. Not to me."

"Are you sure?" Cas briefly let his insecurity get the better of him.

"I need you, Castiel. I do." Dean said, frankly, calmly. "I need you here with me. Okay? So no more of this 'useless' crap. You belong here, with me. Do you understand?" Cas nodded slowly.

Dean kissed him, gently at first and then more urgently, as if to prove a point. Castiel gave in to the embrace, relinquishing his anxieties, allowing himself to be loved.

"Don't forget it, assbutt." Dean smiled and turned to face the television once more, munching on perfect nachos with enthusiasm.

Castiel laughed softly, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. _I'm needed_, he reassured himself. _He needs me. _He picked up a nacho and analyzed it for a fraction of a second before popping it in his mouth contentedly.


	3. Week 3

"Cas!" Dean called from the living room. "Cas, is the soup ready yet?"

"It will be ready soon, Dean."

"I can't wait any longer, Cas! I'm dying in here!" Castiel rolled his eyes. He couldn't help but notice how Dean's voice obtained a distinctly whiny quality when he was sick.

"You're not dying. You just have a fever." Cas called back to Dean as he poured the chicken noodle soup into a bowl. Carrying a mug of tea in one hand and the bowl in the other, he walked into the living room, where Dean was lying on the couch. The former hunter hardly looked intimidating in his current position; he lay cocooned in three blankets, head turned to watch the football game on the television. Seeing Cas enter with food, Dean moved weakly. Castiel quickly laid down the soup and tea on the coffee table so he could help Dean sit up.

"Thanks," Dean exhaled heavily. He had been attacked by a particularly bad case of the flu, and even moving had proved a challenge in the past few days. "What the hell is that?" He motioned to the steaming mug with an expression of utter confusion.

"It's tea, Dean. I read on the internet that one is supposed to give the ill tea to help them heal." Cas smoothed the blankets surrounding Dean and sat down next to him.

"Tea? I can't drink tea. I'm a warrior." Dean said irritably.

"Not anymore. Now eat." Castiel said. He picked up the bowl and handed it to Dean, who began to sip it slowly. "How does that taste?" Castiel asked anxiously. He had spent the better part of the afternoon using the internet and the contents of the refrigerator to try and figure out how to make chicken noodle soup.

"Good," said Dean, after swallowing. "My head hurts. Could I lie down and you can feed me the soup?" Castiel had to smile, looking at the pitiful grown man next to him. At the moment, he more closely resembled a five year old than the creature once feared by the collective forces of Heaven and Hell.

"Yes, of course." Cas assented. Dean leaned back down on the couch and opened his mouth for Castiel to feed him.

"The soup is yummy." He said in between spoonfuls. Castiel grinned.

"I used the leftover rotisserie chicken you made last night and some of the noodles in the cupboard." The former angel stated proudly.

"I mean it. You should really do the cooking more often, Cas." Dean said weakly. Castiel was struck suddenly with a rush of love for the man lying in front of him. Even now, when his weak human body was failing him, Dean was trying to take care of someone else. Trying to make sure that Cas felt good about himself and his accomplishments, however minor, trying protect the one he loved at all times.

Castiel leaned down and kissed Dean on the forehead.

"It's too bad you're sick." He smiled. "Otherwise I'm afraid I'd be forced to kiss you right now." Dean laughed weakly. Reaching out from underneath his shield of blankets, he pulled Cas down by his shirt.

"You're not getting out of it that easily." He whispered, and then gave Castiel a gentle kiss. Cas couldn't help but reciprocate, pressing Dean's feverish lips against his own. He was aware that as a human, he was at severe risk of catching the illness from this contact. But sickness was a small price to pay for just one touch. Besides, Dean would always be there to take care of him. Castiel pulled away gently.

"I'm going to make myself some soup as well. Watch your football." Castiel stood up and moved to walk to the kitchen. Dean grabbed his hand suddenly, and looked up at Cas with wide eyes.

"Hey," he whispered. "Thank you."

"For what?" Cas asked, with quiet trepidation. He knew that this abrupt intimacy was brought about by fever; even with Castiel, Dean usually kept his emotions to himself. However, he needed to hear what the man lying on the couch truly felt.

"For saving my life." He pulled Cas's hand to his lips. "You saved my life." He pressed a soft kiss onto Castiel's palm before releasing it. Cas smiled broadly, feeling the ridiculous happiness he had become accustomed to as a regular aspect of his life with Dean Winchester.

"You saved mine." He whispered. Castiel walked to the kitchen to get himself a bowl of chicken soup, eagerly awaiting a night of watching over Dean.


	4. Week 4

Week 4

It had been three days since The Fight.

Castiel sat on Dean's side of the couch, drinking Dean's beer, watching Dean's football game. Inebriation was far easier now that he was human, and at around the third bottle Cas had decided to indulge in some self-pitying nostalgia for what he believed to be permanently lost. He found himself screaming drunkenly at the television as Dean loved to do, cursing out the men in tights for running across the field.

They had just returned from a disappointing night out when it happened. It had been months since they had gone into the city, or even ventured beyond their ordinary routine, and Dean had wanted to have a special night for them at their favorite Italian restaurant. But upon arriving at the location, they had discovered the restaurant had been turned into a Chinese take-out joint. Dean was heartbroken, and they ended up with dry fried rice and greasy dumplings instead of a romantic candlelit dinner.

"I can't believe that Gennaro's is gone." Dean said when they entered the house, loosening his tie dejectedly. "Why would they do this to me?"

"I really don't think it was personal, Dean." Cas responded, taking Dean's coat and hanging it up. While disappointed, he had not felt the same sense of betrayal that the other man seemed to be experiencing. The loss of good food was tragic to Dean.

"It doesn't make sense. I thought it was doing well!" Dean rubbed his hand against his jaw, a man defeated.

"The great tragedy of humanity is that nothing is permanent. Even your favorite restaurant." Castiel smiled softly. He couldn't help but be slightly amused at Dean's dramatic response.

"You don't understand, Cas. I don't think I'll ever get past this." Dean let out a great sigh, then turned to face Castiel. A mischievous smile crept over his features. "Still, the night doesn't have to be a total disaster." He grabbed Cas's waist and planted a gentle kiss on his neck. Castiel shivered. "Some things are permanent." Dean whispered, his lips right next to Castiel's ear.

Castiel pulled away from the sentiment, from Dean. A look of confusion passed over the other man's face.

"Cas, what's wrong?" He asked, concerned. Castiel turned away, suddenly aware of what he had done.

"I've gotten too comfortable, Dean." He said, facing the door. "This should have ended long ago." Dean grabbed Castiel's arm, turning him so that they were facing each other. His eyes were wide and confused.

"End what?" Dean asked, his voice low, fearing the response he was about to receive. Cas pushed Dean's hand off of his arm.

"What are we doing, Dean? Living here, in this house, pretending that we are normal and that everything is fine. But this is all wrong." Castiel said angrily. Dean stared at him, unmoving. "We're all wrong." Dean sighed heavily, a look of weary understanding resting on his face.

"Castiel, you know that I want you here. I'm happy with you just the way you are." Dean spoke with the tone of a man repeating himself, slowly and with a tinge of exasperation. "We've been through this, Cas."

"Yes, we have been through this. And you have deluded yourself into thinking that we are supposed to be together." Castiel's voice was close to shouting. He saw Dean flinch perceptibly at the words forcibly thrown at him. "But I only hinder you. I am as weak as a child, constantly in need of your care and protection. I am a walking reminder of your past, of everything that you have lost." Castiel began to pace angrily around the foyer. Dean just stood there, an unmovable pillar. His face had adopted a closed look, his emotions inscrutable.

"You need someone who can take care of _you_, someone real. You deserve better than me, Dean." Castiel stopped pacing. He spoke his words quietly, wishing that he didn't have to say what he knew to be true. Dean's guarded expression suddenly changed to one of intense anger. He grabbed Castiel's shirt and pulled him closer so that their faces were only inches apart.

"This isn't about _deserving_, Cas. This is about fucking _love_." Dean shook Castiel, his voice rough and brimming with emotion. "I love you, I want to be with you, and you're just going to throw that all out?" He let go of the other man, angrily wiping away the tears sliding down his face. Castiel turned away resolutely, unwilling to let himself be swayed by Dean's show of emotion.

"I should have known better." Dean said then, his voice thick. "You always leave, Castiel. You run away from the people who care about you. And you convince yourself that you're trying to protect me, but that's not it." He paused, presumably to compose himself, to collect his emotion and shove it down. "You're afraid of facing who you really are." Dean said, his voice strained yet unwavering. Castiel snapped around suddenly.

"Who am I, Dean Winchester? I betray my people, I commit genocide against my race, I fall from heaven, and for what? So I can ruin your life as well?" Castiel's yelled angrily, but Dean stood there resolutely, unwilling to be scared away. "I'm not going to destroy any chance you have of a real life and real happiness."

"This _is _my real life, Cas! This is the life I chose, and you have no right to take it away from me." Dean raised his voice so it echoed around the foyer thunderously. They stood there for a few seconds, glaring at each other. Castiel seemed to deflate after a small eternity, the fierce look on his face transforming into one of intense pain.

"I just want you to be happy, Dean." He said, his voice small.

"I'm never going to be happy with any other person as long as you are alive, Cas. I made that decision the day you became human." Dean whispered. He risked placing a hand on Castiel's face. The former angel looked up at him, and his eyes assumed a hardened look.

"Then I don't want to be human, Dean! I don't want to be with you!" Castiel shoved Dean's hand off of his cheek. Dean took a step back, as if Cas had physically pushed him. He had a stricken look on his face.

"What?" Dean said, his voice treacherously soft. Castiel suddenly realized the magnitude of his words and wished that he could stuff them back inside of his mouth. Somehow, he had gone too far.

"I didn't mean—" Castiel began weakly.

"No, you meant it." Dean interrupted, his voice scarily calm. His face had become inscrutable to Castiel again. He picked up his coat and slowly put it on. Castiel stood there in shocked, guilty silence as Dean opened the door and walked out. He was halfway across the yard when Cas found his voice again.

"Dean!" He called, desperately. His stomach dropped as he realized the gravity and consequences of his words.

"You wanted me to leave, Cas. You've gotten your wish. I'm gone." Dean called from across the yard, his tone one of cold finality. Castiel watched, dumbstruck, as Dean got into the Impala and drove away.

That was Thursday.

This was Sunday. Dean still wasn't back.

"Stupid son of a bitch!" Cas yelled at himself drunkenly. He used the phrase that Dean taught him to say, watching the game that Dean taught him to watch. He knew this was all his fault. He had driven the only person who would ever love him away out of a misguided sense of nobility. Castiel had pushed Dean out of his own house.

"I was wrong." He whimpered, tears streaming down his unshaved face. "I was wrong, I was wrong. Come home now!" He called out to the house. "Dean, come home, I'm sorry!" Castiel cradled his head in his hands. "You belong with me." He whispered brokenly.

"Cas." A familiar voice called from behind the couch. Castiel whipped his head around eagerly at the sound of his name. Dean was standing in the doorway, his back straight, his expression guarded and his eyes fierce.

"Dean!" Castiel swayed as he stood up. He tripped over to where Dean was standing and placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Dean, I'm so sorry, I was wrong. You belong with me." Dean remained unmoved.

"Why should I believe you?" Dean asked, almost coldly. Castiel felt his heart shatter at his tone.

"I'm an idiot, Dean, and I don't deserve you. But I'm selfish, and I love you, and I want you to be here because I think you belong with me." He looked up desperately into Dean's apprehensive eyes. "And I'm never going to let you go again if you stay."

Dean nodded shortly. He seemed to be conducting an internal struggle to keep his emotions in check.

"You have to promise," Dean said, his voice unexpectedly thick. "You have to promise me you'll never do that to me again."

"I promise." Cas said gratefully. Tears were running down his face freely.

"Okay then." Dean said, before covering Castiel's mouth with his own. The former angel felt himself melt with relief and happiness.

"Do you want to watch the game?" Castiel asked quietly. Dean smiled and pressed his forehead against Cas's.

"Of course."


	5. Week 5

Week 5

"Here." Dean tossed a book onto the couch, next to where Castiel was sitting. Castiel picked it up in bemusement, analyzing the cover with extreme intensity. _Slaughterhouse-Five._

"What's this for?" He asked as Dean sat down next to him and flicked on the television.

"For reading." The other answered nonchalantly before taking a swig of his beer.

"I gathered that. But why are you giving it to me?" Castiel was mildly nervous. They had essentially returned to their normal routine since the conclusion of The Fight last Sunday, but Cas still felt a weight of anxiety pressing on his chest whenever he and Dean spent time together. Castiel was aware of how he had wounded Dean, and the idea of the other man giving him a gift so soon after their altercation was unnerving.

"I think we should stop kidding ourselves, Cas." Dean said. Castiel took a sharp intake of breath, fearful of what the next sentence would entail. But Dean just smiled and motioned to the television. "You hate watching football. So I got you something to read while I enjoy the game." The former angel let out an imperceptible sigh of relief. Everything was alright.

"Thank you, Dean. That was very thoughtful." Castiel said sincerely as he turned the book over in his hands. It was obviously new, as the spine was smooth and unbroken. Cas thumbed through the pages, catching glimpses of crudely drawn illustrations and aggressively capitalized sentences. It looked informal and odd in its construction, and Castiel could not understand why Dean had chosen this seemingly muddled story for him to read.

"Why did you give me this book? This _Slaughterhouse-Five_?" He inquired.

"Vonnegut's my favorite writer. I think you'll like it." Dean didn't look away from the television as he answered, seeming to think that this vague response would be satisfactory. He rested his arm absentmindedly on the back of the couch and took another sip of his drink. Castiel frowned at the book in cautious curiosity.

"It doesn't seem to follow the traditional structure of fiction. Forgive me, but its arrangement seems messy and unfocused. I don't understand why this would be a good book to read." Castiel said with a slight tinge of exasperation. Dean finally shifted his focus from the game, setting his beer down. He looked at the book with a gentle expression, almost tenderly.

"This was the first book I ever really read." Dean said thoughtfully, gently taking it out of Castiel's hands. He turned it over, scrutinizing the summary on the back of the book as he continued to talk. "When I was a kid, all I ever read were old newspaper clippings and town records for research. One time, Dad got me a comic book. I must have read that a million times, just because it would make him smile whenever I looked at it." Castiel remained silent, watching the other speak. Dean rarely imparted intimate details of his early life. Cas knew that this was a moment to be treasured.

"When I was thirteen, we went to Twin Oaks, Indiana, to hunt a vengeful spirit. Dad had sent Sammy and me to the library for research while he questioned the victims' relatives. I was looking for the reference section when I saw it on display. _Slaughterhouse-Five._" Dean paused to rub his jaw pensively, lost in the memory of that day, of that book. "I had never really wanted to read anything fiction, but there was something about the cover. It caught my attention. So I stole it." Dean laughed softly.

"I snuck into the motel bathroom when Sammy and Dad were asleep and read it in the bathtub all night. I was probably too young to really get the story, but I could get the main character. Billy Pilgrim, the man without free will. I understood what that felt like." Dean's arm slid down so it wrapped around Castiel. Cas reached to hold the hand draped over his shoulder, stroking it gently with his thumb. Dean took a deep breath before he continued.

"I felt like Vonnegut knew what it was like, being trapped in a world unseen by everyone else, but having to go on living anyway. It seemed like the book was written just for me. When Dad finished the job, I had to leave it behind, because I couldn't hide it from him. It was mine and I didn't want him to know." Dean laughed again, almost bitterly. "I didn't want him to think I was anything except a hunter."

"But when I started doing some hunting on my own, after Sam was in Stanford, I stole a Vonnegut book from every library I stopped in. I used to read them when I was frustrated by a case I couldn't solve, and they would help clear my head. _Slaughterhouse-Five _was the first. It was the one that made me think about who I would be if I wasn't—if I wasn't Dean Winchester." Dean sighed heavily. He dropped the book on his lap, allowing it to thud on his legs with a sense of finality. Castiel could see the past painted on Dean's face, the unacknowledged dreams mingling with the desire to be a man worthy of his father's pride. Cas leaned over to gently kiss Dean on the cheek. The other looked at him for the first time that night and smiled sadly.

"I just thought that maybe if you read it, you would understand how I felt when I read it for the first time in the dirty bathtub of that motel in Indiana." Dean paused and looked down at the book. "Sometimes I still feel like I'm still that same stupid kid."

Castiel now realized the motives behind the giving of the book. Dean feared the past, but he knew that he couldn't escape the life he once led. If Castiel read the book, maybe the burden could be shared. They could connect on a level unattainable since the pain of The Fight

"I'll read it, Dean." Castiel said gently. "I'll start right now, while you watch the game." Dean raised his hand to Cas's face, gently sliding his thumb over Castiel's lower lip. Castiel closed his eyes and kissed it softly before Dean lowered his hand.

"Okay," Dean passed Cas the book and reached once more for his beer. He turned the volume up on the television and began to watch the game again. "Okay."


	6. Week 6

Week 6

Castiel stood staring at the timer on the oven, willing the moments to go by more quickly. Even though he had followed the recipe exactly, Cas couldn't help but check every few moments to make sure that everything was working correctly. His deepest fear was that the oven would suddenly start malfunctioning and start a fire, trapping them both in the house, dooming them to death by painful asphyxiation and third-degree burns.

No, there was a worse scenario: it could taste bad.

Castiel anxiously checked the contents of the oven once more. Assured that it was not about to explode, he straightened again to give the timer his most penetrating stare. His concentration was such that he didn't notice that he wasn't alone in the kitchen anymore.

"I can't believe you did this for me." Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's waist and kissed his neck gently. "This is amazing."

"You have no way of knowing that. It could be terrible." Castiel mumbled, still staring fixatedly at the clock.

"Even if it is terrible, and it won't be, I'm still impressed." Dean whispered, his breath on Castiel's neck causing the former angel to shiver. Cas turned to look at the other, who was smiling gently.

"Really?" Castiel asked, unable to stifle the anxiety in his voice. Dean's grin broadened as he raised his hand to touch Cas's face.

"Really." He replied, before pulling the other into a gentle kiss. Dean moved the hand so he was running his fingers through Castiel's thick, dark hair, deepening the kiss with intent. Cas moved to grasp Dean by his shoulders, but was interrupted by the squealing of the timer. He pulled away from Dean quickly and turned to the oven, where the clock was blinking angry red zeros.

"It's ready." He said with an equal mixture of anticipation of dread. "Wait at the table." Castiel commanded Dean.

"You know I love it when you take charge like that." Dean winked at Cas before sitting down at the kitchen table. Castiel turned his attention away from Dean and on to figuring out how to remove something from the oven.

"Try the oven mitts." Dean said helpfully from the table.

"Shut up." Cas grumbled as he noticed the mitts next to the oven. He lowered the door and gently pulled out a steaming apple pie.

"Okay." Castiel sighed with relief as he set the pie down on the cooling rack. There were no signs of outward damage, so it was possible that his first endeavor in baking had not been an utter failure. "Now the internet says we have to let it cool for fifteen minutes—"

"I want my pie now!" Dean yelled cheerfully, banging his fist on the table for effect.

"Don't be a child, Dean."

"Well, excuse me for wanting to have some of that delicious pie you made."

"We don't know if it's delicious yet." Castiel replied, mollified. He was incredibly anxious, but Dean's support made the entire experience far easier. _I used to worry about saving the world, not baking pies_, he reminded himself briefly before pushing the thought away. That was another life, another time. Now, he was glad to have mastering the art of baked goods his greatest tribulation in life.

Castiel cut a messy slice from the still steaming pie and put it on a plate, taking as much time as possible in order to delay the inevitable tasting. Dean waited patiently at the table, looking at the other with such a look of goofy infatuation that it would have made Castiel laugh had he been paying attention.

"Alright," Cas said anxiously as he set down the plate in front of Dean and then sat down across the table. "I hope you like it." Dean grinned up at Castiel before taking a bite, and then immediately spit it out.

"What's wrong? Did I mistake an ingredient? Are you poisoned?" Castiel stood up and walked over to Dean quickly, hating himself for failing once again. Dean shook his head.

"Hot." Dean said, smiling apologetically. "Really good, just hot."

"I told you it had to cool." Castiel said with exasperation as he went to get Dean a glass of water. When he returned, Dean had taken another bite and seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Cas," Dean said, his mouth full, "This is really good."

"You're just saying that." Castiel sighed as he passed Dean the water and sat down once more.

"I'm not, I'm really not. This is a damn good pie." Dean stood up, taking his plate and his water with him into the living room. Castiel watched him retreat with confusion.

"Where are you going?"

"It's Sunday." Dean called from the other room. "Football night." He cheered as he turned on the television. Cas sighed and rubbed his head with his hands.

"You're an idiot, Dean." He called into the living room.

"Could you bring this idiot the rest of the pie when you come in here?" Dean's voice asked from the other room. Castiel smiled despite himself and carried the dessert into the living room. He set the pie down on the table next to Dean's side of the couch, and then made sure to pick up his book before sitting down. He had finished _Slaughterhouse-Five_ a few days ago, and had almost completed _Cat's Cradle, _another book by Dean's favorite author.

"Thank you, Cas." Dean said seriously, looking over at Castiel. "You know I love me some pie."

"I do know that, yes." Castiel smiled softly before flipping open his book to where he had left off.


	7. Week 7

Week 7

"I got the eggs." Dean called into the house as he opened the front door. He set his car keys and the grocery bag down on a table as he took off his coat. He then walked into the living room and briefly turned on the football game before returning to the foyer.

"Look, Cas, I'm happy that you like cooking so much. I am." He picked the eggs back up off the table and wandered into the kitchen.

"But I think soufflés are a bit tough for a beginner. Maybe you could—" Dean stopped suddenly and dropped the eggs. They hit the floor with a sickening crunch, further dirtying the surface.

A mixing bowl and its contents were strewn on the kitchen floor, as if they had been dropped suddenly. The oven hummed gently, but the room was empty. Castiel was not there. He was gone. Dean knew that something terrible had happened.

"Cas!" He called through the house, which suddenly felt incredibly empty. "_Cas!_"

Dean tore through each room of the first floor, calling for Castiel as he ran. The living room—empty; the bathroom—empty; the office—empty; the former angel was nowhere to be found.

"Castiel!" Dean was nearly screaming as he ran up the stairs. He impatiently brushed away the tears that had begun to slide down his face. Had Castiel been taken by someone? Had some shadow from their former life finally caught up with them? They had left that world behind, but maybe the nightmare was never really over. Something had happened, and all Dean knew was that Castiel was gone.

He flung open the bedroom door and nearly collapsed with relief. Castiel was sitting on the foot of the bed, looking down at his hands. Dean ran over and kneeled in front of the other man.

"What's wrong? Did someone come for you? Are you hurt?" The questions poured out quickly, words tripping over themselves as Dean's anxiety pushed through his voice. Castiel looked away.

"I'm fine, Dean. No one came." He said in a flat voice, his face still turned from Dean's. A spectrum of emotions passed over Dean's face; relief, confusion, anger.

"What the hell, Cas? I saw the mess on the floor and I thought something had happened to you. I was calling your name, and you didn't answer. I thought you were gone." Dean's voice was thick with emotion. "And then you're just here, sitting on the bed. What was all that in the kitchen about?" Castiel did not answer, his head resolutely turned to the opposite wall.

"Cas, look at me, goddamn it!" Dean yelled. He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of hopelessness and frustration.

"We're going to die, Dean." Castiel said after a small eternity. He turned his head slowly, until he was looking up at the other man. His deep blue eyes were filled with absolute despair.

"What?" Dean spluttered at the unexpected answer.

"I said that we're going to die, Dean." Cas repeated, calmly.

"What, soon?" Dean asked, confused and angry. He was seriously resisting the urge to punch Castiel in the face for making him worry, and then kiss him because he was safe.

"Time is relative. A full life in human terms is nothing for an angel." Castiel continued to speak in that monotonous tone. He looked so tired, a man who had been broken too many times to count. Dean, on the other hand, was restless. He shifted his weight and rubbed his jaw, mistrustful of the turn the conversation was taking.

"But you're not an angel." Dean said.

"I was." Castiel said moodily.

"Key word: _was._ You're human now." Dean retorted. Castiel looked down at his hands again, unwilling to respond. Dean snorted with mirthless laughter.

"So what you're saying is, even though you're human, and you have a house, and a life, and your damn soufflés, and me, you're going to worry about when we die, God knows how many years from now?" Dean asked, annoyed. "You're going to throw away what's happening now to think about the future?"

"Our lives are short, Dean." Castiel said angrily. He stood up to face Dean so that they were only a foot away from each other. "We were supposed to die, but we didn't. And when this borrowed time runs out? What then?"

"Then we go to Heaven, Cas! We're in this for eternity, remember?" Dean yelled, referencing their vows. Castiel shook his head in annoyance.

"How do you know that we'll get there? After all that I have done? I fear that our time on Earth is the only chance we have to be together, and it's not enough. I just realized that I can't live every day knowing that this is it!" Castiel turned away, realizing the force in his words.

"So what, you want to leave?" Dean asked, his voice broken.

"Of course not." Castiel turned back to Dean, who had an expression of hopelessness on his face. "I just want us to last forever, and that is an impossibility." He looked down, startled by the tears that were stinging his eyes. Dean took his hand, gently.

"I dream about it every night." He said quietly. "I dream about Hell, and Purgatory, everyone that I've ever lost. I can't ever forget it." Dean used his other hand to cup Castiel's face, softly rubbing away the former angel's tears with his thumb.

"I wake up next to you, and I can't believe that we're here. But we are, Cas. We're here." Dean brought Castiel in for a gentle kiss. "We could die tomorrow, and it wouldn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, however much time we have together is eternity. You and me? We're forever."

Castiel nodded slowly, tears still running freely down his face. Dean pulled him in for a hug, his hand resting on the back of Castiel's head, protecting him from the darkness of the world, from the darkness inside himself. They stood like that forever.


End file.
